


Bucky Reaches Out

by Brumeier



Series: Making Connections [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Emotional Hurt, Friendship, Identity Issues, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is troubled by some Avengers marketing, and looks to Steve to help him understand who he is now that he's not the Winter Soldier anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bucky Reaches Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taste_is_Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/gifts).



> For Taste_is_Sweet on her birthday. A little Bucky fic for your reading pleasure. You are and ever will be blamed for sucking me into this fandom. ::grins:: But I love you anyway! Happy Birthday!

He keeps to the fringes of the crowd, package clutched tightly in his artificial hand; it’s safer for everyone to keep that hand from curling into a fist, which it so often wants to do. He waited until early evening to go out, when the sun sinks low in the sky and the shadows turn long and welcoming. He moves almost unseen the entire four blocks to the 6th Street men’s shelter, eyes constantly scanning to assess possible threats.

The woman window-shopping ten yards away: her purse looks exceptionally heavy. Is she concealing a weapon?

The man walking ahead of him, bundled up in a heavy coat despite the unseasonably warm temperatures. What is he trying to hide?

More importantly, is anyone giving _him_ a second look? As far as the world knows, James Buchanan Barnes is dead. He’d expected some sort of blowback after his very public interactions with Captain America – it was sloppy work, he doesn’t deny that – but so far the media has been silent on the subject. Only a die-hard World War II buff, or an actual Howling Commando, would be able to recognize him as the man who fell to his death seventy-odd years ago.

No-one looks at him. In his ratty green coat and baseball cap, unshaven as he is, he doesn’t appear to be anyone worth knowing. It suits him just fine.

When he gets to the shelter he slips down the alley and in through the back door. He won’t be able to stay here much longer. They want him to join the therapy group, want him to work towards transitioning to a residential facility that will help him get back on his feet. He just needs a relatively safe place to lay low.

“James. I see you made it to the street fair.”

There’s always a slight disconnect when someone addresses him by name. He only ever gives the name James to other people – not Barnes, and especially not Bucky; only Steve calls him that, the days they go running in the park. He doesn’t feel like Bucky, not now and maybe not ever, but he can’t deny the strange feeling that crawls just beneath his skin when Steve uses the name. It’s like some part of him remembers, more than just the random flashes of memory that come to him at odd times.

“May I?” Bill is one of the counselors that run the shelter, and even though he makes it a question it’s not really one. Anyone who stays at the shelter can bring things in from the outside but they have to be inspected, searched. No drugs, no weapons. They’ll let porn through sometimes. He appreciates the clearly laid-out rules, the structure. He likes knowing what’s expected of him.

He waits for a comment, but Bill just examines the contents of the bag and returns it. He looks amused but there’s no ridicule.

“Will we see you at dinner tonight?”

He nods and moves past Bill, keeping a cushion of space between them. He doesn’t like people touching him, doesn’t like anyone in his personal space. For a long time he didn’t have a choice about that but now he does, and he enforces it with his silence, his body language, the fierce expression on his face.

He saves his words for Steve, for whom they mean the most.

His bunk is wedged into a corner, where he can have the walls at his back. Most of the other men share bunk beds, to make the most of the space available, but he sleeps violently and wakes the same way. When he sleeps at all. 

The mattress is thin, but compared to what he’s been used to it might as well be stuffed with six inches of down. On the bad nights he sleeps beneath the bed, embracing the cold of the concrete floor as the only thing familiar in an uncertain world.

He’d spent some time on his own, squatting in abandoned rooms, empty buildings, but to his surprise he feels a bit more at ease surrounded by these other men, these strangers he has no real interest in knowing. Their night sounds hold an echo of others, long-forgotten except in the dark hours after midnight. He finds an odd sort of comfort in it.

He sits on the bed and removes the item from the bag. It was irresponsible, spending his hard-earned money on such a useless item, and he’s sure he’ll regret it later. But the compulsion had been too strong, and now he holds it in his hands, studying it intently.

A child’s toy, the packaging garish with bright colors. _Avengers Series Three: Hydra Assassin_ , it says across the top of the box in big white letters. Inside is a seven-inch figure made of plastic, fairly detailed considering the medium, and his chest constricts just looking at it.

Looking at himself.

The figure wears a painted black suit, knife clutched in one hand. The face is covered by a familiar black mask, which had served a dual purpose: hiding his identity and acting as a physical reminder that he had no voice, no words that were not given to him. He’d always hated it.

The toy has one arm painted shiny silver, a tiny red star on the shoulder. He flexes his own metallic hand, hidden away inside a black leather glove. It makes him less than human, a monster created for only one purpose, and the only way to be rid of that is to rip the offending limb from his body. He’s not strong enough to do it, not strong enough to render himself that vulnerable.

Hydra assassin. He turns the box around to read the writing on the back. _A dangerous foe of freedom and democracy, the Hydra Assassin has been tasked with destroying Captain America. With his robotic arm and top-level training, this villain is a real threat to our nation’s biggest hero._

He turns the box again, looks at the figure behind the cellophane window. A seven inch Winter Soldier, programmed to kill the man who had been his best friend in another life. The world sees him as a villain. He doesn’t disagree.

So why does Steve?

*o*o*o*

He gets to the park early the next morning, scouting the perimeter for anyone who shouldn’t be there. Steve always comes alone, doesn’t seem to care about keeping himself safe.

He waits patiently in the shadows, watching other joggers on the trail, watching people use the park for picnics and sunbathing and Frisbee games. He remains vigilant, doesn’t let down his guard even as Steve jogs up to their designated meeting place.

“Hey, Buck.” Steve understands about personal space, always keeps his distance though it’s clear that he wants to be closer. 

“I’m not a hero.”

“What?” Steve gets that look on his face, the one that says he’s hearing something he doesn’t like. “What are you talking about?”

He tosses Steve the Hydra Assassin box, which is deftly caught in midair. He waits, eyeing a woman in a bright pink tank top and spandex shorts that runs past, ponytail swinging. Central Park is a terrible location from a defensive point of view: too many entry points, too much cover for a shooter, too much potential for civilian casualties.

“This isn’t you, Bucky,” Steve says. His voice is strained, his expression a mix of anger and something not as easily recognizable. “They don’t know what happened to you. The things you did…you didn’t have a choice. You know that.”

They’ve never talked about it in the two weeks since he initiated contact with Steve. Quite often they run in silence, or Steve will recount stories of his life since being unfrozen. And oh, how he’d burned with fury for days after he learned that, though he wasn’t quite sure how to focus it. Crashing the plane into the ice was a foolhardy move, one that didn’t made sense from a strategic perspective; he could’ve bailed out and saved himself. But beyond that he’d been angry at Steve for doing something so senseless, even though sometimes he remembers the sickly kid, the one who’d get into a brawl in defense of a complete stranger even though he had no chance of winning. 

He tries not to be jealous that Steve’s transformation into Captain America didn’t erase the good person he is at the core.

“It is,” he says. “Or…it was. I don’t know what I am now.” As soon as he says it he feels some of the tension lift from his shoulders. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he needs to talk about it after all. Or maybe it’s just Steve, who withholds judgment and is so accepting of whatever is shared with him.

“You’re what you’ve always been,” Steve replies. “My friend.”

The negation is automatic, the shake of his head not even really registering. There must still be something of James Barnes in him, because he finds it much easier to accept himself as the Winter Soldier than admit he let himself be broken, let everything that ever meant anything to him be scooped out of his head. The Bucky that he’d read about at the Smithsonian exhibit would never have allowed himself to be a victim.

He doesn’t realize he’s said any of that out loud until he feels Steve’s hand on his metal wrist, and he knows that his eyes are impossibly wide at this breach. He should move back, shake Steve off, but finds himself unable to do either.

“You are _not_ a victim. Do you hear me? You’re a _survivor_.” Steve moves closer, his grip firm and unyielding. “Everything they put you through…it takes a strong person to survive that, Bucky. And I know you’re strong because I know _you_. Hydra didn’t take that away, you just forgot for a while is all.”

_A memory, then, of a darkened bedroom with a storm raging at the windows. Thunder rattles the panes, air moving through the gaps in the sill. He’s on a narrow bed, wrapped around a scrawny, feverish Steve shaking with cold chills and so congested it’s a wonder he can even breathe._

_“Hang in there, pal,” his past self whispers. He’s afraid, and the memory comes with the knowledge that he always was when Steve got sick; afraid it would be the one that finally loosened his hold on the world and took him away. “You’re stronger than this, Stevie. I know you are.”_

He blinks at the Steve that stands in front of him now, so tall and muscular and healthy. He survived a childhood full of illness and disease, and came out the other side nearly invulnerable. He never gave up.

"You should've died."

There’s a flash of hurt in Steve’s eyes, but it must be he’s gotten used to these non sequiturs because he just stands there, holding on like he might never let go, and waits.

“You were sick. All the time.” Steve nods, understanding. “Asthma. Something with your heart too?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t hear real good either. You used to have to raise your voice,” Steve says. “I spent my childhood feeling like an old man.”

“Look at you now.” And he does, because he forgot a lot and he’s trying to make sure Steve sticks in his head with more permanence. He doesn’t want to forget again.

“I survived,” Steve says softly. “Just like you.” He holds up the Hydra Assassin box and crushes it in his hand with a crackle of cellophane and the snapping of plastic.

Something feels like it breaks inside him, too, but not in the splintered bone way he’s so familiar with. He doesn’t try to pull out of Steve’s grasp, but instead twists his wrist to the side and entwines their fingers, flesh and metal, before Steve can make to pull away. It’s the first time he’s willingly touched anyone since he broke free from Hydra. It’s the first time he’s wanted to.

Steve’s face is flushed, his eyes over-bright, and he’s practically bleeding emotion through their joined hands. “Bucky,” he says in a choked voice.

It’s too much, of everything: honesty, memory, forgiveness. “I can’t,” he says in apology. When he tugs free Steve lets him go, though his hand hangs there for a long moment.

“Don’t go.”

But he’s already on the move, putting space between them again. It’s a tactical retreat, he tells himself. He’s not equipped to handle the enormity of what’s waiting for him with Steve. Not yet. He needs to get back to the shelter, to the simple familiarity of his bunk. He needs time to think.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” Steve calls after him, sounding a little desperate.

He doesn’t look back – there’s every chance he won’t be able to leave if he does – but sends his reply over his shoulder. He can’t leave Steve with nothing. “Soon.”

*o*o*o*

It’s dark in the dormitory, save a soft glow on the far wall from what the staff calls a safety light but everyone else understands is a night light. He’s not the only one who has troubled sleep.

He sits with his back to the wall, able to see the exits and keep an eye on the slumbering forms in the bunks. Except he can’t stop looking at his hand, remembering how it looked with Steve’s hand wrapped around it. How it felt.

Steve is a puzzle where none of the pieces fit. He’d have been totally justified in holding a grudge, in bringing the asset to justice, but it seems that all Steve can see is Bucky. They’d been friends once, best friends. Maybe more, it’s hard to remember.

He feels the echo of Steve’s love just under his skin, like an itch he’s afraid to scratch.

The room is filled with soft night noises: murmurs, snores, breathing, groaning, gas. The men are here for a variety of reasons, but tonight they all have one thing in common. They’re survivors. Of wars, bad luck, addiction, illness. It’s not something that occurred to him before today, but he likes the idea of it.

He curls his metal hand into a fist, and then uncurls his fingers slowly. Is he capable of being anything other than a weapon?

Maybe it’s time to find out.

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** Not sure where this came from but the idea of Bucky contemplating a Winter Soldier toy was compelling to me. And maybe it’s partially a response to those who consider his character a villain, despite all the brainwashing and horrible treatment at the hands of Hydra.
> 
> This also comes out of a conversation I had a while back with Taste, about what name Bucky assigns to himself. Since he’s still working on his identity, I figured he wouldn’t refer to himself by any name at all. Which is why there’s so much ‘he’ in here. Hope it wasn’t too confusing!


End file.
